


He Steals the Image in her Kiss

by The_traveling_wilburys_of_pain



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, I'll keep you posted, Romance, We found love in a holmesless place, also possibly some inappropriateness, probably violence at some point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_traveling_wilburys_of_pain/pseuds/The_traveling_wilburys_of_pain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen days after the Fall, Molly gets an impossible text from a man she never really knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Extraordinary Girl by Green Day.  
> I haven't decided what warnings or ratings I'll need to include, so I'll add them later.   
> I didn't chose to ship Molliarty - the ship abducted me in the middle of the night and led me on a magical journey of angst and sadness.

 

_Is everything in place?_

 

_Did you try the alternative?_

 

_Alt. Plan failed. His men are watching._

_Is he?_

_No. I don't have much time. Is everything in place?_

_Yes. How long?_

_Two minutes._

_Ok. Good luck._

 

The first day was virtually silent. Molly spoke no more than thirteen words to the living corpse sprawled on her sofa; Sherlock said no more than three to the freshly-baptized felon in the cranberry jumper. She made tea and he drank it; she cleaned the bloodstains that had trailed behind him with club soda and he did not move to help. His hands pressed together under his chin, his eyes closed, Molly thought he looked almost like a fallen angel, if she could pardon the phrase. But surely he was not; angels fall but do not jump.

The second day was louder: Sherlock had woken from his pensive trance and was now pacing the length of the sitting room, picking up and displacing random objects that Molly knew would take far too long to straighten properly. Four times he yelled at her: once because she interrupted him, twice because she could not stop the incessant phone calls of nosy reporters, and once more because her cardigan was hideous. Each time he apologized, though less sincerely for the cardigan complaint, and eventually he joined her in a cup of tea. They drank wordlessly, reveling in the brief interlude of silence before the piercing ring resumed.

On the third day, Molly woke to an empty flat, but found a note taped to the door.

_At the cemetery. If I'm not back by three, things have gone wrong_.

 

Molly took a moment to pray that things would not go wrong, then lit the stove and burned the note atop it. Sherlock returned at 3:03; Molly hit a new personal breath-holding record, entirely by accident.

Sherlock waited three days after the story had disappeared from the papers to venture outside on a regular basis. Molly's hands were tellingly stained by the cheap red dye she had dutifully worked through his hair. She scrubbed them for hours while Sherlock went out. He came back with a new set of clothes, a new mobile contract, and an I.D, which Molly did not care to find out the origins of.

On the fifteenth day, he said goodbye. Not with words, but with a cup of tea at the ready when she woke up. Underneath it was a mobile phone number and the caption "For emergencies only." Underneath that, scrawled almost illegibly, were two words Sherlock used so infrequently that she wondered if it was he who wrote them. This letter she did not burn. She slipped it into her pillowcase where it would not be found.

The tea itself was awful, and she drank every drop.

It was when she finished that the texts started.

_I won't tell if you won't tell. Jim Moriarty x_.

o0o

She had kept the number but she didn't know why. It had been a year since she had used it, and then it had been to break things off. When she learned the truth, and not the truth she had been so rudely told in the lab at day but the real truth behind those gentle eyes, she had felt so betrayed that she could almost ignore the sudden fascination with this man who could hide so much behind so little. But eventually it faded to the back of her mind, springing back now and again when his name came up in (mostly one-sided) conversation with Sherlock. There were times she had to remind herself that Moriarty was never her boyfriend, Jim was, and even that was unofficial at best.

Furthermore, the chances that two genius fugitives simultaneously faked their deaths were too small for even Molly to put faith in. Sherlock himself had told her about the gun that came from nowhere, the choice he made to end his own life rather than let Sherlock attempt to salvage his. She wasn't surprised, exactly, but she did ask Sherlock several times if he was positive. Yes, he said. He saw the gun, he heard the shot, his shoe still carried the stain of the blood spray.

So she ignored that text, hoping that it was somehow a mistake, a delayed service error to the wrong number days after the message was supposed to be delivered. It didn't even make sense in Molly's mind, but it was better than texts from a psychopath from beyond the grave. Soon, however, it became impossible to justify the texts, even with the farthest stretch of the logistics of errors.

_I cannot stand this weather_.

_Don't bother with Glee tonight. Not worth the effort_.

_I don't care for Tuesdays. But then, neither do you_.

 

And then, when she knew it had to be him, they got worse.

_Your cat is misbehaving. I like this one_.

_Go ahead, get whipped cream on the latte, you earned it dealing with that bitch of a wife your last patient was lucky enough to escape from._

_Honey, not even you can pull off those denims. The color alone ages you five years_.

 

At this, Molly could not help but gasp. She looked around each corner of the shop dressing room for the offending camera but could not find one. How had he seen her? How much had he seen? She clumsily pulled her coat over herself to conceal what she could of her body while she shimmied out of the offending denims - crimson and skinny, the recommendation of a fashion-forward friend - and threw her own worn pair on as fast as she could. It took all of her restraint to look as calm, collected, and nondescript as she could while virtually running from the shop.

He was alive. He, Jim, Moriarty, the one who had driven Sherlock off the roof of St. Bart's and helped to make a felon out of her, was alive, and texting, and texting _her_. Not just texting but _watching_ , and not just watching but _seeing_.

The shops were not safe. Out in public anyone could find her, and she knew from John's stories that it was much too easy to get oneself kidnapped in London. So she walked quickly, down the middle of the sidewalk and looking behind her periodically, back to her flat. The door locked on contact, and she pressed her back against it, reveling in the relief of a secure location. But soon her logical inclinations caught up with her, and she plucked a knife from the kitchen with which to check each room of the flat. It was, apparently, undisturbed, and she was preemptively relieved until she checked her own bedroom. There, sitting on the bed, was a red-wrapped box, exactly like the one she had tried to give to Sherlock on that terrible Christmas. She approached it cautiously, terrified of the vibrations of her footsteps, until she was close enough to hold it in her hand. It was more like the original box than she had realized at a distance: it was inscribed in what looked too much like her own handwriting for comfort.

_To Molly_

_XOXO Jim Moriarty_

 

Sherlock would have brought the box to the lab to test it for every possible poison or nuclear exposure before carefully prying it open through thick gloves. John would have hurriedly ripped it apart, cleaning up the mess later if he survived long enough. Molly elected to leave it there until someone with e requisite knowledge could help dispose of it. As she opened her mobile to text Greg and prayed that his suspension had ended, she saw a text that she had missed. Did you get my little gift? Molly heard her heartbeat in her throat, but greater than the fear was the curiosity. Whatever this was, it was no accident. Whether Sherlock had been compromised, she could not say, but she felt similar to one of Toby's mouse toys, the one's he batted around for hours before ripping to shreds.

 

She took a breath. Inhale.

_What do you want from me?_

 

Send.

Exhale.

In thirty seconds, the reply came.

 

_Isn't it obvious?_


	2. It's Not Over 'Till You're Underground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for potential triggers.   
> This is kind of a set-up chapter - the next one will be more intense.

The message was almost illegible in Molly's trembling hand, but even when she could read it, the only thing she learned was that she was more easily frightened than she had thought. But then, she _had_ just texted a murderer - what did she expect?

From the corner of her eye the box seemed to burn with her own terror and curiosity, brilliantly red and most likely combustible. To open it would be akin to suicide - Molly was well aware of the incident with the old woman and the "gas leak" - but to let it sit there without explanation was gnawing at her patience and restraint. Just as she was wondering how dangerous it would be to prod the box herself, her mobile buzzed as if to answer.

 

 _Open it. It won't bite. Pinky promise_.

 

What good is a pinky promise from a serial killer? But Molly could resist no longer. She turned to the box and gingerly lifted a corner of the wrapping paper, her breath hovering in the back of her mouth as though paused. When nothing happened, she exhaled and continued to the other side, taking care not to tear the paper. Soon the paper fell away without incident, leaving a white box behind. Molly said a quick and unofficial prayer, then lifted the lid.

Inside was a black rubber ball, about two inches in diameter. Innocent to the outside observer, but to Molly, it looked just like the one that Sherlock showed her weeks ago, the one that would hide his pulse from John long enough for him to be taken to safety. The one that no one was supposed to know about - especially not the man the show was for.

Even with the reason for her panic plainly before her, Molly's medical mindset began to urge her to visit a cardiologist by the time the next text came through.

 

 _Relax. Play a while. Let's have some fun_.

 

Molly could feel her racing pulse straining against the ball in her fingertips. She tossed it tentatively in the air and caught it only half a second after it left her hand, the impact too small to sting. Part of her wished it would have hurt. There was nothing like a small, sharp burst of pain to center oneself: the pinch to make sure she wasn't dreaming, the icy splash of cold water to snap her out of her nerves, the sharp jolt to her lower lip when she bit into it rather than say something regrettable. But instead, she rolled the ball between her finger pads and palm, it's trivial weight almost unbearable.

He was not just alive, but he _knew_ , knew that Sherlock was alive and that Molly was involved. From what she'd heard from Sherlock, she would suffer for this, but if Sherlock was found, he would face worse than she could imagine. Not to mention John, and Greg, and sweet Mrs. Hudson, none of whom deserved what would come to them.

Molly could not stop it. But Sherlock could, if he got the chance. The number was still stashed in her pillowcase, and this was an emergency if she ever saw one. She constructed the text to be concise enough for efficiency and obfuscated enough to avoid interception.

 

 _Westwood is on the ball and thriving. Invest ASAP_.

 

Hoping her financial advise would not be interpreted as such, she pressed the button. Not thirty seconds later, her mobile buzzed once more.

 

_Tsk tsk. Goodbye, Ms. Hooper._

 

By the time she heard the glass break, she had ducked behind the bed. Emergency protocol 04, as she and Sherlock had constructed in preparation for his absence, was more difficult when the bullets were singing the stray strands from her ponytail as they whizzed past her head. She made a sharp left at the hallway and ducked into her closet. There, squeezed between the paper towels and winter coats, she waited until the gunshots stopped, and then waited a few hours more.

o0o

"Hello, is Detective Inspector Lestrade in?"

The security guard flipped through his sign-in sheet. "D'ya mean Detective Sergeant Lestrade? 'E came in n'hour ago. 'Se expectin' you?"

Demoted, then. It was a shame, Molly thought, but not entirely unexpected. Between the privileges afforded to Sherlock and the merit given to his suspicions, Greg was probably lucky that the Chief Inspector hadn't fired him outright.

"Not exactly, no, but he knows who I am. Tell him Molly Hooper needs to see him."

"Identification?"

Molly pulled out her St. Bart's ID, complete with terrible photo, and handed it to the guard. He gave it a quick scan and passed it back to her.

"Alright, I'll ring 'im up. Wait 'ere."

Molly waited, and was soon directed to the third floor. Greg had been moved to a smaller office down the hall, but it didn't take Molly very long to find him. When she did, he was putting the finishing touches on a cup of coffee. She knocked on the frame of the open door and he lifted his head.

"Molly," he said, sliding his chair aside to stand up. "Haven't seen you in a bit. How've you been?"

"Oh, you know," said Molly. She stepped towards the empty chair opposite the desk - cluttered already, she noted - and sat down. Greg stepped back and sat to stir his coffee. "Managing."

"Same here," said Greg. "But it's not so bad being a Sergeant again. Nice not having to go snoop around murder scenes all the live-long day." He raised the coffee to his lips and took a sip. "So what brings you here?"

Molly's eyes darted around the room. Though she didn't know how to find a bug if there was one, it was tempting to look around and feel reassured by their supposed absence. She huffed a short sigh, then pulled her phone from her purse.

"I've been receiving texts," she said, "from Mor- well, from someone who says he's - you remember that man Sherlock kept on about, with the bombs?"

"Moriarty?"

"Yes," Molly said, relieved that Greg hadn't tried to tell her the same Richard Brook story she had heard every time she turned on the Telly for a week. "They've gotten more...personal. And yesterday, there were shots fired through my window and I think they were meant for me."

"Jesus," Greg whispered. "Can you..."

"Sure," Molly said, and she unlocked her phone, maneuvering to the texts in question. She handed the device back to Greg. "Looks like he's been watching me. And it doesn't make sense because he's-"

"Well, I'll tell you what," Greg said. "If you've been shot at this is attempted murder. I'm surprised no one called in the shots earlier."

"I thought no one would believe me," Molly said, "in light of the whole...situation. They know I was close to Sherlock, they might think that he put me up to this. That's why I came to you."

Greg put down the phone. His elbows rested on the desk and he held his head in his hands.

"Do you think this is really him?"

"I don't know," Greg said. "I don't know, it might be, it definitely looks like it, but..."

"But...?"

"But he's not supposed to be real! They had me - I arrested Sherlock and now..."

"Greg, please, I need you to help me," Molly said as gently as she could. "Do you think anyone will believe me if I try to take this higher up?"

"They might've if someone had called in the gunshots. Even I have a hard time believing that guns went off in the middle of London and no one bothered to call it in. I'm sorry, Molly." He looked up at her, his head lifting his arms off the desk with it. "I can try to get you police protection, if you're being stalked, which it looks like you are -"

"Thanks, but honestly I'm not sure that will help."

"Neither am I," said Greg. "This bloke really isn't phased by anything we can do."

There had to be something somebody could do that wasn't entirely useless. Her emergency text hadn't yet been answered, and Molly had heard enough of Sherlock's stories to know that there was very little the Yard could do even if anyone besides Greg believed her.

"Do you think we could trace the number?"

"Not sure what good that would do, but sure, I guess. I figure he'll have some sort of safeguard on that, though. You do know we can't just go and arrest him, right?"

"Given how it's worked out before I would think not," Molly said. "The number's in my contacts under Jim. Please do what you can."

"Jim?"

"Long story."

"I won't ask," Greg sighed. "I've heard enough of those lately. I don't know when I'll be able to do this, but I'll phone you as soon as I've got anything. Do you have somewhere safe to stay tonight?"

"If I can get to the train station I'll be fine. I owe my mum a visit anyway." On most days Molly resented the fact that she couldn't get certain people to look at her twice. Now it was her greatest asset: once at the station she could get lost in the crowd and slip aboard a train without a hitch.

"Alright," said Greg, resignation in his voice. "Do you want an escort?"

"Too much attention, I think."

"Fair enough." Greg took a sip of his coffee, wincing at it's mellowed temperature. Once he put it down, his eyes met Molly's for less than a second before he averted them.

"I'm sorry, Molly," Greg said. "This is all...well this is all batshit crazy, pardon my language...but if I hadn't..."

"Greg," Molly said, her voice soft but breaking. "This isn't your fault. You were doing your job." She pushed herself out of the chair. "I have to go catch that train. Phone me as soon as you find anything. Thank you."

"Of course," Greg muttered. Molly turned to leave, but heard Greg's voice behind her. "Be careful, Molly. Please."

o0o

Three days later Molly had returned to London, having assured her mother that she would be safe and that all was well. She kept the post-it note with the address Jim had spent the most time at over the past three days on her person at all times, tucking it into the smallest pocket of her denims. Her trip to the drugstore had gone without incident, and now she stood on Baker Street buzzing a door she had not buzzed in nearly a year.

It was several minutes before there was an answer, but soon enough she heard footsteps all-but galloping down the stairs. The door was yanked open, and before her stood a panting John Watson, his shirt not quite tucked into his trousers and his sand-colored hair still wet.

"Molly," said John, blinking several times in quick succession. "Haven't seen you in a while. Alright?"

"Yeah," said Molly.

"Just visiting, I suppose. Can I-"

"Oh, sure," John said, pulling the door open so Molly could enter. He let the way up to the flat, pausing before the door. "Just a warning, the flat's a bit...disorganized..."

"It's fine," said Molly.

John opened the door and Molly stepped in behind him. Disorganized was a word. Apocalyptic may have been better suited. The kitchen was filled with various objects all thrown together: books strewn over, under, and in between pillows and beakers, a framed periodic table of elements lying on top of the sink, and was that a chair lying on it's back atop the heap? The rest of the flat, however, was stark, barren even. Bookcases once full had been ransacked to the point of holding only one or two volumes. Various pieces of furniture were missing outright, and what was left had been cleared of any decoration. Only one chair sat before the mantle.

"I'd offer some tea, but..." John glanced at the kitchen, then turned very sharply toward his chair.

"It's alright," said Molly. "If you don't mind me asking-"

"A week ago. It was late and I just..." John shook his head. "Anyway, what's up?"

"Just checking in," Molly said. She walked to John's chair and stood awkwardly beside it, rolling her hands together. "I was wondering if you needed-"

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine, thank you," said John.

"Alright," Molly said. She knelt next to the chair. "John, what happened to-"

"I just couldn't, alright? The whole flat was cluttered with these things and I just _couldn't_. I keep meaning to fix it but I just..."

"I could help you-"

"Don't. Touch. Anything!" John yelled. He turned his head to Molly. He wasn't crying, but his eyes were red as though he was. After a moment, he sighed and turned his head back down.

"Sorry, Molly, I'm...I'm so sorry."

"John," said Molly, reaching a hand out to cup his knee, but he jerked his leg away. Molly stood up. "John, this is difficult. For everybody. Especially you. I know how close you were-"

"Just-" John cut himself off before he could yell at her again. He held his head in the pads of his fingers. "I'm sorry. I just...I'm sorry. I know you're just trying to help but-"

"It's alright, John," Molly said. She took a deep breath and willed her resolution to build. "John, I need to ask you something, and please don't lie to me. Do you still keep that gun by your bed?"

"No, I got rid of it," John answered, too quickly.

"John-"

"Fine, yes, alright, but I'm not going to _do_ anything, it's for safety and safety alone."

"Right," said Molly. "John, I really don't think you should have that around in...in your state. It's far too easy to just-"

"I know," John said. "But I'm not going to. Why do people assume that just because he..." John stumbled over the next few words and eventually gave in to shuddering in the pads of his fingers.

"John," said Molly, hoisting herself up. "I'm going to take the gun, just for a little bit. A month or so, or until you're feeling better."

"A month," John said, his voice flat and choked. "You really think a month will-"

"Until you're feeling better," said Molly. "Alright?"

John did not respond, but he did not move to stop her. Molly turned and walked toward the stairs, leaving John sobbing quietly on the chair.

o0o

As she walked toward St. Bart's, Molly tried her hardest not to feel manipulative. She had been helping a friend, and it was better, after all, that John did not have that gun within easy reach. The fact that it was now loaded and in her pocketbook next to the cheap hair dye and cheaper makeup was merely icing on the cake.

In any case, the chances that John would get his gun back were slim to none. But without the law on her side, Molly could see only one option.

The hair dye set in almost perfectly, bringing her dusty brown to a deep red. She curled it carefully, then shook it out and admired the obviously intentional distress. The makeup she slathered and then wiped off, leaving it's ghosts across her eyelids and dotting her lips. She tied the scarf around her head and pulled it over her hair. Brightly coloured as it was, it hardly helped to conceal her, but that was beside the point. She left the supplies in the St. Bart's staff bathroom, bringing only her coat, her mobile, the gun, and the address tucked safely away in her pocket.

Success, she knew, was about as likely as finding a dinosaur in space. But once Jim Moriarty had marked her for death, there was only one way she could end; her only choice was who she would take with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violence in this chapter and hints at suicidal thoughts.


	3. Missing Link (on the Brink of Destruction)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breathe.  
> Safety.  
> Aim.  
> Steady.  
> Breathe.

It was every residential building in London, every wind-worn brick facade whose intricacies are never fully appreciated, every scuffed and gum-stained pavement, every first-story windows whose bars are never peeked through. It was mundane in a way that sent a shiver of terror through Molly's spine.

  
But as far as last looks went, Molly thought, maybe something familiar was best.

  
Rather than the gates and heavy-set guards in black suits and matching earpieces she had imagined, the door was governed by a simple buzzer that probably outdated Molly herself. She made a point to look the security camera in the eye as she buzzed the only "unoccupied" flat, concentrating her breath so as not to waver as she requested assistance in the vaguest of terms. There was a murmur and a rustle on the other side of the intercom, followed by an unintelligible whisper and the grating, stinging buzz of the door unlocking remotely.

  
The building was an unceremonious walk-up, with an undecorated staircase winding its way to the third floor and beyond. She stopped at the third, finding only an unmarked door with a brass knob that matched every other. Her fingers grasped lukewarm metal and twisted. The door stayed locked until the third attempt, when an audible click announced her success.

  
The room within was austere, but with a more deliberate, well-kept atmosphere than the surrounding building. The floor was hardwood of a darker and smoother variety than the scuffed walkways on the other end of the door, and the scarce furniture was a matched set. The walls were pinstriped with black between a green just a shade away from grey. This room was windowless: any light came from the ceiling, fluorescent without crossing the line between bright and glaring. Behind the front desk sat a light-haired woman in a pressed black button down, who stared at Molly as if she had walked in baring an AK-47 while dressed like Nicki Minage.

  
"Ms. Hanford?"

  
"Yes, that's me," said Molly. She approached the desk, but the light haired woman's obvious fear stunted her progression.

  
"Amelia Hanford?"

  
"Yes," Molly said. "Is something wrong? Do I need an appointment? I could come back-"

  
"No, no, he says..." The woman squinted at her computer screen, the blue glare causing her pale eyelashes to create shadows across her skin that looked almost like spider legs. "He says to have you meet with Carleton immediately...just a moment."

  
It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to realize that the receptionist wasn't used to accepting people on such short notice. Obviously this was an unusual occurrence, a woman appearing and being granted an audience immediately, and Molly noted the wide variety of security scans she hadn't been subjected to. It shouldn't have been this easy.  
The receptionist rose and walked towards what looked like an unmarked part of the wall but upon further inspection contained a small black button nestled at hip level. She pushed it and a portion of the wall slid behind the rest.

  
"This way."

  
Her eyes did not leave Molly for a second, pinned to her as she waited by the newfound doorway.

  
"Always the showman," Molly mumbled, and she stepped past the receptionist into the corridor.

  
While the reception area was designed to impress, the hallway was clearly designed to intimidate.  Ceilings too high for the building were flanked by shadows cast by lights that lined the floor. Several doors were visible, and though Molly could not focus her vision long enough to read any of the nameplates, she could tell that the door at the end was marked differently.

  
The receptionist cleared her throat, signaling to stop, and Molly turned to face the door to her left. The nameplate, small but defined, read "CARLETON."

  
"Here you are," said the woman. She turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  
"Mr. Carleton, Ms. Amelia Hanford to see you now."  
The woman peeked through the door, and at the receipt of some inaudiable signal, shoved it wider and led Molly in. It closed behind her with a loud click.  
After a second or two Molly's eyes adjusted to the brighter room. Here the lights were sharp, akin to the sudden glare of police car headlights. It was not a large room, and the ceilings were back to their normal height, but it managed to contain a desk and a small sofa-and-table setup. Behind the desk was a man not much taller than Molly, with thinning hair unsuccessfully combed over his polished head and a suit that fit his stocky body impeccably. He smiled in greeting, but his eyes were narrowed slightly, pinched and calculating, and Molly felt as though she were pinned beneath a microscope.

  
"Please, Ms. Hanford, have a seat."  
Carleton gestured to the sofa facing his desk, and Molly obligingly sat, taking care to keep her posture upright as she slid her scarf off her head. The colorful silk fell from her newly-reddened hair and collected in one hand.

  
"This is unusual, I must say," said Carleton, and he took the seat across from her, sitting ankle-over-knee and relaxed into the chair back. His version of a power play, Molly saw - he needed to seem entirely comfortable where she was not. This was not the time to challenge it.

"Well, yes, I suppose so."

  
"Most people who come here aren't strangers," Carleton said, "and no one gets in here without an appointment. So you must be very important, or your need must be very great. So, pray tell, what need brings you directly to the boss himself?"

  
Molly's throat constricted at the question. Her cover story sat at the ready in the back of her mind, but she had not expected to be forced to justify it's importance before what could only be an associate of some kind.

  
"I need to make someone disappear," said Molly, her voice hushed. "But...I don't know if...I really need to speak to-"

  
"No one speaks to him," said Carleton. Molly met his eye, green and piercing, and felt as though she had shrunk three inches. "The last man to speak to him directly...well, you read the papers."

  
"This is a special case," said Molly, "because this isn't just anyone. It's someone powerful, who would be noticed, and there's really no other way to go about this...if you'll forgive me, Mr. Carleton," Molly said, gulping and hoping her fear would follow, "I'm not sure it would be wise to tell anyone else. I need to speak to him."

  
Just then, there were five short knocks on the door and the sound of the knob grinding faintly in its twist. Molly turned to see the pale woman poking her head through the door.

  
"I'm to bring you to see the boss," she said, her eyes wide and her voice barely above a whisper. Behind her, Carleton formed the shaky beginnings of a few words of protest, but was silenced by a sudden glare from the receptionist.

  
"Come along," the woman said, again struggling to get any sound into her voice, and Molly, knees trembling, stood to follow.

  
Of course, she had come here knowing that the chances she would leave intact were slim to none. But as she stepped back into the dim hallway, she could almost feel the end of her life beginning to encroach upon her. Quick and undirected prayers buzzed about her mind as she ran through the procedure: breathe, safety, aim, steady, breathe, fire...

  
"Almost no one sees the boss directly."

  
Molly was shaken from her rehearsal by the receptionist, who seemed even paler in the intimidating light.

  
"I've never even seen him. He comes before I do and stays after I've gone. I've never brought someone here who hasn't been here before. And-"

  
The woman fell silent as they reached the door.

  
"And what?" said Molly, her voice dampened.

 

"I've seen people go in," the woman said, "But I've only ever seen one person go in and come back out."

  
Molly traced the receptionist's controlled inhale and exhale, and watched closely as her slender fingers approached the delicate M-shaped knocker on the door. She lifted it and clanked it gently three times.

  
"Good luck," she whispered, and she pivoted, hurrying down the hallway back into the light. The door closed behind her, leaving Molly in the glare-peppered darkness.  
After five seconds, the door before Molly swung open, and she stepped in on instinct without waiting for an invitation. This office was large and square, with sparse furniture that drew attention to the abundance of space. Before the grand, round-top window stood a man with his back toward the door and his arm cocked as if holding something. Molly still had the occasional nightmare about that figure in the black suit - even from the back of his head, she would have recognized him anywhere.

  
Her footfalls were loud enough to register against the hardwood, but he did not acknowledge her presence. As quietly as she could, she slipped her hand into her handbag and retrieved the gun, heavy in her shaking hand.

  
Breathe.

  
Safety.

  
Aim.

  
Steady.

  
Breathe.

  
As her finger gripped the trigger, the man in the black suit turned to face her. His eyes were wicked as she had only seen them once, narrowed in mild amusement combined with a sort of predatory rage. In his hand he clenched a short glass full of some brown liquor, whose ice cubes rattled as he turned.

  
"Hello, Molly," he said. He was staring at her, not in the eye but at about neck level. Molly loosened her grip and looked down to see dots of red light moving against her chest.

  
"Don't be silly," said Moriarty. "Someone else is holding the rifle."

  
o0o

  
Molly held the gun at chest level as she brought her eyes back to Moriarty's. If she was quick, she could get him before the sniper fire hit. But her untested aim was not to be trusted.

  
Moriarty saw her hesitation and the left corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk. "Go on," he said. "Clearly you came here for a reason. Why not see it through?"

  
It was impossible to aim when Molly's hand was jerking rather than shaking. The last hour's events circulating and clouding her mind, she came to a conclusion that became a consistent and deafening thought.

  
"You knew. This whole time. You knew."

  
"Oh, of course I did, love," Moriarty said with a chuckle. "I never do forget a face, not even yours." He looked down almost shyly - Molly could have mistaken the expression for that of an adolescent boy trying to look ashamed for cracking wise. "That was a good trick though, I must say. Your disguise was nearly passable. If you were applying I might even have offered you a job.

  
This should not have flattered Molly, but her mouth rebelled and quirked into a slight smile, which she soon corrected. "Thanks," she muttered with her best attempt at sarcasm.

  
"Oh, lighten up," Moriarty said. "It's only life, after all. Speaking of," he said, his eyes wandering to the gun still aimed at him, "that's why you came here, isn't it? Go on, then. Shame to waste a perfectly good Tuesday."

  
Molly stood, trembling still, her finger twitching around the gun but straying from the trigger.

  
"You can't have actually intended to go through with it. Look at you, your hand would make a seismologist giddy. Give it up, love, we're not getting any younger."

  
"Or older," said Molly under her breath. Her eyes flicked to the red dots poised steadily at her chest. She probably wouldn't even live to see the bullet hit, but she would die knowing that one less murderer was loose in the world, that she didn't let the man who tried to kill her get away with it.

  
Inhale.

Exhale.

She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

  
A shot rang out, and Molly felt the gun ripped from her hand. She clutched the hand, burned by the sudden friction, and opened her eyes to see what was John's gun lying destroyed on the ground in front of her. It had been shot cleanly out of her hand from above.

  
"Interesting," said Moriarty, rolling the word around on his tongue. "Sit down, Ms. Hooper, and we'll discuss your future."

  
Molly froze. Her hand, still burning, clenched, and her legs were stiff and brittle twigs beneath her.

  
"Let me say that again," said Moriarty, his teeth nearly clenched. "Sit down, Ms. Hooper, and you'll have a future to discuss." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no real-life experience with guns. Please feel free to correct me if I have blatantly screwed up.


End file.
